Chapter Thirty-Three
Ronin
I pull up outside my parents’ house on Easter Sunday and park behind the O’Connells’ car at the curb.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at it through the windscreen.
I don’t think I’ll ever have the kind of relationship I used to have with Alannah’s parents again, but the few times I’ve seen them since I came home from Ireland have been less strained than I expected.
Things are still tense. They probably always will be.
But at least there hasn’t been any shouting or anyone demanding I leave.
I know it isn’t much, but it’s something.
I reach over for the two bouquets on the passenger seat, one for my mam and one for Siobhán, then get out and shut the car door behind me. By the time I make it to the front step, my da is already opening the door.
“Ronin,” he says, stepping aside to let me in before clapping me on the back. “Good to see you, son.”
“Good to see you too, Da.”
He glances at the flowers in my hand and smiles. “Come on,” he says. “Everyone’s in the sitting room. We were just having a drink before dinner.”
I follow my da into the sitting room, where my mam and the O’Connells are already sitting and talking. When we come in, they all get to their feet. I cross the room to my mam first. “Happy Easter, Mam,” I say, kissing her cheek before handing her one of the bouquets. “Thanks for inviting me.”
She smiles as she takes the flowers, her eyes softening. “You’re always welcome here, love.” She looks down at the bouquet. “These are beautiful.”
I turn to Seamus and shake his hand, then offer the second bouquet to Siobhán. “Happy Easter,” I say.
She takes it from me with a warm smile. “Thank you, Ronin. They’re lovely.”
My mam comes up beside Siobhán, still holding her own bouquet, and links her arm through hers. “Come on, Siobhán. Let’s find some vases and get these into water before they start to droop.”
The two women head toward the kitchen, their footsteps fading down the hall, and I take one of the empty chairs while my da moves to the small bar in the corner and pours three whiskeys.
He hands one to Seamus and one to me before taking his own seat.
I lean back, swirling the amber liquid slowly in my glass.
Seamus clears his throat. “Ronin, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, and I thought it better to wait until Siobhán was out of earshot.” He holds my gaze. “When you were in Ireland, did Alannah mention anything about the letters her mother and I sent?”
The question catches me off guard. I lift my glass and take a drink, buying myself time to think. I haven’t really told anyone much of what happened in Ireland, but my da and Seamus were there when I got home. They saw how beat to hell I was. “No,” I finally say. “It didn’t come up.”
As soon as I say it, Seamus’s face falls, and his shoulders slump forward. “Right,” he says quietly. “Of course it didn’t.”
I watch him, a sick feeling spreading through my chest. I’d been so selfish.
So wrapped up in my own anger and embarrassment that night that I never once stopped to think about what I was leaving behind when I walked out.
I didn’t think about my parents standing there, trying to smooth everything over.
I sure as hell didn’t think about Alannah’s parents expecting her to sit through the rest of the reception and pretend I hadn’t just humiliated her in front of everyone.
And I didn’t think about the rest of that room either, all those people watching it happen and then going right back to drinking and celebrating like it was nothing.
The longer I look at Seamus, the worse I feel.
He looks exhausted, worn down by months of guilt and worry.
I hate knowing I’m part of the reason for both.
I search for something I can give him, some small piece of comfort from Ireland, but what am I supposed to say?
That I went there and made everything worse?
That I hurt his daughter all over again and still tried to force her home with me?
Before I can decide if I should even try to say anything, my mam appears in the doorway with Siobhán beside her. “Dinner’s ready,” she says.
My da stands first, and Seamus follows him toward the dining room. As they go, Da puts an arm around Seamus’s shoulders and pulls him in for a quick hug, clapping him once on the back before letting go. I hang back a step, watching them.
I take my usual seat at the table and immediately feel my jaw tighten.
The place beside me has been set for Mick again.
My mam still does it, stubbornly refusing to accept that he hasn’t come to one of these dinners in months.
I glance at my da, but he just gives me a small shake of his head, silently telling me to leave it alone.
These days, the only time I see Mick is at work, and even then, it’s usually because I’ve had to pull him aside.
He’s been getting a bit too big for his boots lately.
Stepping out of line. Acting like the rules don’t apply to him.
From what I’ve been hearing, he’s been asking around about spots in New York and Chicago.
Halfway out of Southie already. Far as I’m concerned, he can go.
Used to be, that kind of move would’ve been a serious problem.
You don’t just jump ship when it suits you.
But my da, Seamus, and I have already talked it through.
Better to let Mick think he’s choosing to leave than keep him here until he does something we can’t ignore.
The longer this drags on, the less surprised I am it’s come to this.
Dinner passes with my mam and Siobhán talking about Mass and Father Sullivan’s sermon while my da, Seamus, and I fall into work talk.
My da asks how the new products are moving at the docks—the television sets and pharmaceuticals I’ve been testing—and whether I think it’s worth bringing more in.
The old rackets still earn, but times are changing, and the way he asks tells me he trusts my judgment again. It feels good.
When my mam starts clearing the plates and asks if anyone wants tea or coffee with dessert, I push my chair back and say, “I’m going to head out.”
My da walks me to the door, and before we reach it, my mam comes after us with a plate wrapped in foil. “Here,” she says, pressing it into my hands. “There’s ham and potatoes. Take it with you.”
I take the plate. “Thanks, Mam.” She pulls me into a quick hug and kisses my cheek before letting me go.
My da gives me a pat on the shoulder. “Have a good night, son,” he says.
“You too,” I tell him, then head out to the car.
When I get home, I let myself in and move through the quiet house.
It doesn’t feel quite as bare as it did when I first came back from Ireland.
Bit by bit, I’ve unpacked the boxes of Alannah’s things I hadn’t touched before I left, leaving little pieces of her everywhere.
Her books line the shelves now, and her clothes hang in the wardrobe beside mine, just as they should have from the start.
I told myself I was only putting things where they belonged, but the truth is, I couldn’t stand looking at the boxes anymore, and I couldn’t bring myself to send her things away.
Seamus’s question stays with me as I make my way to my office.
On the desk is the letter to Alannah I’d finished before leaving for my parents’ house, already sealed and ready to post in the morning.
I sit down, tear open the envelope, and pull the letter free.
For a moment, I just stare at the page. Then I reach for my pen and add one last line at the bottom.
P.S. I saw your parents today. I know they hurt you, and I know you don’t owe them anything. But your da asked if you’d said anything to me about their letters while I was in Ireland. I thought you should know he asked after you.